


SHIELD and Seal

by HugeAlienPie



Series: Identities [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The West Wing
Genre: Crossover, Francis the Silversmith, M/M, Phil Coulson is Mike Casper, Post-Avengers (2012), SHIELD Husbands, pedants in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacDougal grinned and flicked the corner of his cards. "Christ, Coulson. I've brought my wife along for this thing for five years. She's never started a brawl in the White House."</p><p>Phil's lips tightened. "Your wife," he said tersely, "isn't a SHIELD agent."</p>
            </blockquote>





	SHIELD and Seal

**Author's Note:**

> My West Wing fics exist in a beautiful time bubble where President Bartlet's always about 3 years through his first term. I like living in denial. It's a nice place.

Phil pinched his nose and asked the woman to repeat herself. Not because he'd missed what she'd said, but because it gave him time to lower his blood pressure and resist the urge to unleash righteous fury upon a woman with a vaguely familiar matronly voice, who was, after all, just doing her job.

She didn't so much repeat herself as press on, which worked as well for Phil's purposes. "--and the police collected the thief, but the other young man refuses to speak to anyone but you."

 _Good for you, Clint,_ Phil thought. Aloud, he said, "Understood. Thank you. I'm on my way." He ended the call and swallowed a sigh.

Salat, FBI, and MacDougal, EIS, looked up from their poker hand, transforming from idling civil servants to two of the brightest minds in U.S. intelligence in less time than it took to blink. "Trouble?" Salat asked.

"Nothing to concern yourselves with," Phil assured them.

Or, at least, tried to assure them. "If something's going on--" Salat began.

"It's a personal matter and has nothing to do with national security."

Doggedly, Salat continued, "Because, after all the talk about inter-agency cooperation--"

"Hamdi." Phil held up his hand. "The only crisis is me kicking myself for bringing my husband along this weekend."

Gianopoulis, DHS, looked up from the scanner in the corner where she'd been monitoring the DC police band. "Hey," she said, "have any of you heard about a brawl in the White House rotunda?"

MacDougal grinned and flicked the corner of his cards. "Christ, Coulson. I've brought my wife along for this thing for five years. She's never started a brawl in the White House."

Phil's lips tightened. "Your wife," he said tersely, "isn't a SHIELD agent."

***

"Agent Casper!"

Phil's eyes closed briefly. This, _this_ was why he hadn't wanted to come to the White House. He hadn't wanted Clint to come, either, but the bastard had turned the puppy dog eyes on him, and, damn it, Clint's puppy-dog eyes can see through your _soul_ , and he'd told Phil he'd never been to the White House, which had tugged at Phil's misplaced patriotism, and...yeah. An official tour, he'd insisted sternly; he didn't care what his status as a highly placed agent of an American intelligence agency allowed them access to. If Clint stuck to the official tour, Phil had rationalized, how bad could things get?

 _Never, ever ask yourself that question_ , he reminded himself. _Not when Clint is involved_.

He had considered the front door, likely the shortest route to Clint, but decided the risk of running into someone who recognized him bothered him less than the hassle of crowds and security at the front door, even with liberal waving of his badge. He hadn't been to the White House in years; what were the chances anyone would even remember him?

"Agent Casper!"

Phil flipped his badge over and schooled his face into a bland almost-smile before he turned, swallowing the dozen profanities, in a half-dozen languages, that came to mind. "Ms. Moss."

Moss-- _Donna_ , his brain supplied--smiled and clipped up to him, juggling an armful of file folders to take his hand in a gesture less shake than gentle press. "I can't believe you're back! We've missed you. We assumed you'd--" She frowned. "--been transferred." Phil would bet a million of Stark's dollars that wasn't what she'd started to say.

He took the out anyway, nodding. "I was on a special assignment in Luxembourg." He winced. _Luxembourg? Why not just say Lichtenstein and be done with it?_

And yet, wonder of wonders, she seemed to buy it, nodding thoughtfully. "What brings you back?" She looked around and lowered her voice. "Here for the thing?"

Phil tried not to laugh. How had he forgotten about the senior staffers' inability to supply a noun when needed? Or maybe Donna thought she was being subtle; no one outside of the intelligence community was supposed to know the meeting existed. He nodded. "I am."

"Well, it's good to see you." She frowned. "I thought Salat was in for the Bureau."

He stared, mask slipping for a second. "There's no possible way your clearance level is high enough to know that."

She blushed and fluttered her hand in a way that meant absolutely nothing. Phil let it go for the moment but made a stern mental note to investigate the matter when he got back to SHIELD.

"You should come back there," she said, turning her hand flutter into a wave at the West Wing. "There's a lot of people who'd love to see you."

Phil blinked. He'd had no idea. "I'm sorry," he said, surprised to almost mean it. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in close. One of the most useful tools he'd learned in dealing with civilians was making them feel like they were part of some special secret op. "I'm working right now," he said. "Rescue mission."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh! Is this about the brawl? I hear the guy who started it is pretty cute."

 _Protective coloring_ , Phil told himself as he said, "That's a big part of why I married him."

Donna startled a little. "If you see Will and Sam, do not let them go off on Tomasoni's survivors' rights amendment. It has enough votes already."

Phil had no idea what that meant or why Donna felt the need to mention it to him, but he nodded. "But please don't tell them I'm here. Actually, don't tell anyone I'm here. We're keeping this on the QT."

Donna nodded and put her finger against her lips. "Mum's the word," she said, and Phil choked on the laugh that tried to burst out of him. She should spend less time with Seaborn.

"Thank you," he said solemnly. He gestured toward the door that would take him into the rotunda, and she nodded her understanding and slipped toward the West Wing.

Phil's shoulders sagged. He gave it five minutes before every staffer in the West Wing knew he was here.

***

Clint's chair didn't swivel, but it wobbled. And squeaked. It was a gift from God. He rocked back and forth, sometimes at random, sometimes squeaking out obscene words in Morse Code, holding his hands behind his back as though they were still bound. The elderly but fierce woman who was clearly in charge here, the one Clint had decided was Fury's biscuit-baking, ass-kicking grandma, seemed almost amused, but Agent Healy, her rent-a-cop underling (Secret Service rent-a-cop, but still), all pec and no neck, though he never looked at Clint directly, seemed about to burst some blood vessels in his forehead.

A door at the side of the room flew open, and there stood Phil in his pissed-off glory. No one else in the room would've pegged him as more than slightly annoyed, but Clint was adept at reading degrees of eyebrow arch and lip twist, and he was looking at one irate agent. Whether that ire bent more toward Clint, the people holding him, or himself, it was too early to tell. Clint risked a smile anyway and was rewarded with a half twitch of Phil's lips. Clint relaxed and got ready to watch the show.

Phil's cloud of righteous pissiness carried him a mere three steps into the room (which, okay, given the size of the space, was nearly halfway) before he stopped abruptly, flummoxed. "Doreen?"

Grandma Fury raised her eyebrows. "You." She snorted and turned away. "Oughtta known you'd be messed up in this." She jerked her thumb at Clint. "He onea yours?"

"To my eternal sorrow."

She snorted again, much more amused. "Best get him on outta here, then."

"Agreed," Phil said. "Barton?"

Clint brought his hands around in front of his body and deposited the unlocked handcuffs on the desk. Healy, who'd been silent in an increasingly disapproving way, all twitching jaw muscles and flexing fists, had finally had enough. "He ought to apologize," he snapped.

Grandma Fury crossed her arms under her imposing bosom and stared at him. "To _who_?" she demanded.

"To..." The agent foundered helplessly for words and finally settled on, "To _somebody_."

Phil looked at Clint. "Agent Barton, are you sorry?"

Clint's face was dead serious as he looked into Phil's eyes. "Not one damned bit, sir. Some asshole tried to steal a purse off a fifteen-year-old. On a _White House tour_. I retrieved the purse and restrained the thief until Agent Healy arrived." He batted his eyelashes at Healy, who glowered. "I followed protocol." He grinned at Phil. "For once."

"You were brawling in the White House!" Healy snarled.

"I punched _one guy_! Would you rather I'd let him get away?"

"You see how it is, Agent Healy," Phil said. "I could _force_ Agent Barton to apologize, but it would be entirely insincere and thoroughly annoying. For everyone." He nodded to Grandma Fury. "Doreen."

" _You,_ " she replied emphatically, and Clint suddenly found it fascinating that she hadn't called Phil by name--any name--the whole time. "You are trouble."

"I'm not," Phil insisted. "Trouble just gravitates toward me. Barton."

"Right behind you, sir," Clint said, and then did crowd rather close as they left the small office.

They emerged in a mostly deserted hallway. Clint barely had time to shut the door behind them before Phil had him pinned to a wall. Clint stiffened, and then the pheremone-lovin' part of his brain stomped the fight-or-flight part's toes and told it to _shut the fuck up this is Phil._ An eyebrow went up. Cockily. "Sir?"

One of Phil's eyebrows went up to match, and the smile was ghostly, but present. "Agent Barton," Phil said softly, leaning hard against Clint, forcing Clint to bite back a groan as they turned into one long, hot plane of contact, "we do. not. brawl. in the White House."

"One guy, Phil," he said. "One." He held up a finger to demonstrate and whimpered when Phil caught the finger in his mouth and nipped. "But maybe," he conceded as he pulled his hand away, "I didn't have to hit him so many times."

Phil chuckled and leaned away. "A very mature concession." He snuck a glance around. "Okay, let's move. We have about two minutes before we're spotted."

"Spotted? I punched a guy in the rotunda. The ship has sailed on 'spotted'."

"No, I meant--never mind. We're leaving."

"No." Clint crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving without my tour."

Phil rolled his eyes. "You _had_ your tour. It ended in ignominy and violence, as usual."

"We were ten minutes in," Clint said. "I didn't see much. Come on, Phil. This is my first time at the White House. The _people's_ House."

People who only knew the Avengers in passing thought Rogers, or maybe Stark, had the best puppy-dog eyes. But Stark's were actually obnoxious, and Rogers' carried an unhealthy dose of guilt-inducement, like you'd accidentally _kicked_ the puppy somehow. Clint was, among people who knew them well, the unacknowledged _master_ of this game, because he excelled at reading subtle shifts of body language and facial expressions and could tell exactly how someone was reacting to it. He could fine-tune it to within a fraction of a heartstring and shut it off the millisecond someone started looking annoyed.

Phil didn't look annoyed. He looked resigned. Since that was his default expression when dealing with Avengers, Clint counted it a victory. "Fine," Phil said, "finish your tour."

Clint smiled and tried not to look smug in victory. "Come with me?"

"Oh, no. I'm sneaking out the nearest side door and getting back to my meeting."

Clint frowned, genuinely confused. "Why?"

Phil huffed. "Because people here _know_ me, Clint, and not as Phil Coulson, and I'd prefer to avoid the--"

"Agent Casper!"

Phil's head dropped fractionally forward. "--complications."

Clint's gaze flicked to the man bounding toward them up the no-longer-deserted hallway. He smiled sheepishly. "Oops?"

Phil ran his hand down his perfectly smooth lapel. When he was done, his visitor badge, which had said "Philip J. Coulson, SHIELD", now announced "Michael C. Casper, FBI". He put on his absolutely motionless poker face and turned. "Mr. Lyman."

The guy skidded to a stop and stood, sort of bouncing on the balls of his feet, a huge grin splitting his face. "I didn't believe Donna."

"Does she often prove untrustworthy?"

"Nah." This Lyman guy had serious dimples. "She's just, you know, her head's not always..." He waved his hand around. "And, listen, you gotta call me Josh. I feel like we've had this conversation before."

Phil shrugged one shoulder. "That was a long time ago."

"It was!" Josh nodded emphatically. "We haven't seen you in ages! We were starting to worry there were no more crises."

"I was on assignment in Lichtenstein."

Josh blinked at him, and even Clint felt thrown. _Lichtenstein_? "Huh," was all Josh said. "Hey, are you here for the thing?"

Phil nodded. "I am."

"I thought Salat..."

"Different division."

Clint had no idea what was going on anymore, except this guy had major clearance and couldn't finish his sentences.

"Ah." Josh looked not-so-subtly at Clint. "And you? No, wait." He tilted his head. "MIC? JAC? SSB?"

"You're not supposed to _eat_ the Scrabble tiles," Clint blurted.

Josh burst into laughter and stuck out his hand. "I don't know who you are, but I think maybe I like you. Josh Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff."

Clint took the hand, but before he could introduce himself, Phil smoothly cut in, "This is my husband, Francis."

Josh gave Clint a more scrutinizing look as the handshake ended. "Civilian?"

"Silversmith," Phil said, and he looked as surprised to say as Clint was to hear it. Also, "Francis"? Phil was well aware of Clint's feelings about his middle name. Low blow. But he rounded his hands into the pre-arthritic curl of a man who did too much small detail work with his hands and squinted a bit, as though he really ought to have his glasses.

"Nice," Josh said. "Husband?"

"God bless New York," Clint said dryly.

"Yeah. Hey--" He turned to Phil. "If you run into Sam and Will, don't let them talk your ear off about Tomasoni's thing. It's gonna pass; you don't need their gay rights crusade."

Phil's eyebrow arched. " _Their_ crusade? And how is Lord Marbury?"

Josh laughed and waved it off. "Too rich, eccentric, and British to stump for gay rights in the US. Cleverly disguised as diplomatic impartiality, of course. Plus, we're already married in the UK, which he claims means we don't have to care."

"Ah. Well." Phil shook his head a little helplessly. "Congratulations?"

"Are you Lady Marbury now?" Clint asked. He realized was holding himself more softly, looking less alert but more engaged, a bit owlish. A man who preferred the life of the mind to the body. He wished he had gold-rimmed glasses to slip on.

That startled a choked laugh out of Josh. "Actually, yeah, I am. John hates when people say it." He winked. "So say it a lot, if you see him. You, uh, doing the tourist thing?"

"I've never been to DC before. I was trying to do a tour."

"Yeah, there was a thing with the tours."

Clint grinned. "I saw it."

Josh's eyes widened. "Wicked." He looked around. "Want the better tour?"

Phil's jaw clenched. Clint grinned. "Fuck, yeah."

"Francis," Phil said, in a voice Clint recognized from a hundred degenerating Avengers meetings, "I am still working, technically."

"Go on, then," Josh offered. "Git. I'm happy to show Francis around."

Clint worked hard not to crow. _Game, set, and match_.

"Well," Phil hedged.

"Come on," Clint wheedled. "One more boring meeting with Salat and his notebook or a chance to see how adorable I am as I tour the White House for the first time."

Josh was bouncing again. "Oh, Casper, you really met your match with this one, didn't you?"

Phil gave the tiniest sigh Clint had ever heard. "I know when I'm outmaneuvered."

Clint gestured up the hall. "Lay on, MacDuff," he said, and was glaring before Phil had time to look surprised. "Yes. Francis knows Shakespeare. Shut up." Josh's appreciative chuckle warmed Clint's snarky little soul.

They'd only gone a couple steps when Phil froze, an arm flung out across Clint's chest. Clint turned, six possible action plans springing to mind, depending on the nature of the emergency. "What's wrong?"

Phil stared at him in something akin to horror (these were subtle things, on Phil's face). "Did I say Lichtenstein?"

"Yeah. It was weird, actually." He peered at Phil. "What?"

Phil groaned. "I told Josh's assistant I'd been in Luxembourg."

Clint almost laughed. Philip Coulson, Agent of Agents, the man who remembered every picayune detail about his agents' lives and the lives of their undercover identities and alter-egos, messing up his own story. Priceless.

Then he considered the look on Phil's face. He looked the way Clint felt on those astronomically rare occasions when one of his arrows refused to go exactly _where the fuck he'd put it_. And it stood to reason. Mastery of the minuscule was the secret heart of Phil's command of all he surveyed.

Clint decided to be a nice husband for once. He squeezed Phil's hand. "Hey. It's okay. They won't notice."

"This is the President's senior staff." Clint couldn't remember the last time he'd heard this level of frazzled in Phil's voice. "They'll notice."

Clint brightened. "Make it a game! Every time we talk to someone, change one detail about where you were, or who I am, or something like that."

Phil looked unconvinced but intrigued. "What's the prize?"

"The thought of the President's senior staff sitting around arguing about who's remembering the story right. Because if Michael C. Casper is anything like Philip J. Coulson, no one's going to believe you _lied_ to them."

"Huh." The corners of Phil's lips twitched. "A game."

Josh had finally cottoned to the fact that his guests were no longer behind him. His floppy mop of hair flopped moppily back into view. "Coming?"

Clint grinned at Phil and turned toward their host. "Yeah. Mike was telling me the West Wing is nothing to freak out about."

Beside him, Phil made a small sound Clint recognized as 'definitely not rolling my eyes inside'. "Honestly, Francis. They'll love you."

"If it helps," Josh said, "I kind of already do."

Clint laughed and grabbed Phil's wrist, hauling him up the hall. "Thanks, Josh. That _does_ help."

Clint's hearing had never been his greatest asset. Which was why the murmur hit him so hard. The current of sound--or was it an actual, palpable wave of energy?--that rolled over him from behind the door Josh was leading them toward. And if he could hear (feel?) it that well with his busted-ass ears, how the hell loud _was_ it? He grabbed Phil's arm. "What is that?"

Josh turned, grinning, and took the last couple steps backward. "That, Francis the Silversmith, is the West Wing."

Clint's eyes widened. He gripped Phil's arm harder and braced for the ride.

***

Phil liked the senior staff and their assistants. He liked the junior staff, the ones he remembered, and their assistants, the ones who had them. He just wished there weren't so many of them.

Actually, he didn't remember there being quite so many of them. Granted, he'd mostly been in the Oval Office, Leo's office, and the Roosevelt Room when he'd been here before, but he didn't recall having met this many people.

But, apparently, this many people had met _him_ , and they all remembered him, and liked him. He estimated that almost two score people, only about half of whom he recognized, had approached them, singly or in pairs, to tell him how glad they were to see him. They all looked faintly relieved, and he wondered, with a fleeting twinge in both his physical and metaphorical hearts, whether he was dealing with another group of people who'd been led to believe he no longer numbered among the living. He felt humbled and grateful at the outpouring of affection and admiration the people of the White House for the man he had been.

He also felt _tired_.

Tired of people looking surprised that he wasn't dead. Tired of everyone knowing about the meeting, and Salat, and the brawl (he would have to have words with his fellow intelligencers about their inability to keep anything, you know, covert _._ Good thing they weren't in the _spying_ business or anything). Tired of being warned off "Tomasoni's thing", maddeningly obtuse sentences delivered at high speeds, and people who didn't stop walking while they were talking to you.

He was even tired of being Michael Casper. It wasn't like "Philip Coulson" was his real name, either, but "real names" were a gray area in his line of work, and Coulson was the one he'd managed to keep the longest, the one he felt the most comfortable wearing. The one on his marriage license.

If Clint hadn't obviously been having the time of his life, Phil would've made their excuses and hauled ass back to the hotel half an hour ago.

At last, even Clint looked like he was flagging. As a man and a woman he thought might be connected to Counsel's office walked away, Phil smiled at Clint. "Ready to go?"

"Almost," Clint said, sounding sad to confess it. "We have to meet Sam and Will first."

Phil's eyes widened. "Seriously? The guys everyone's been warning us off all damned day?"

"No!" Clint shook his head. "I thought that, too. But they've just been warning us about some amendment they're going to try to talk about. But everybody seemed to assume we'd talk to them at some point. So I think we have to."

Phil smirked. "Have to?"

Clint nodded emphatically. "Have to."

"All right, fine. They'll be this way." He pointed toward the Communications bullpen. They'd already dealt with Ziegler, so that wasn't an ordeal he had to dread, but Communications had a _lot_ of staff, all of whom they would have to wade through on the way.

But it turned out they'd already talked to a good percentage of those staffers, so only ten minutes passed before they stood at the door of a glass-fronted office full of frenzy and bickering.

"Fine," Will was saying as they approached. "No period. I'm even willing to surrender the semicolon. But, a comma, Sam. I beg you."

"The sentence doesn't _need_ a comma there," Sam said, calmly typing on.

"Except for the fact that, at that point, he won't have taken a breath in, like, three minutes."

Sam peered at him over the rims of his glasses. "He's the leader of the free world and a Nobel laureate, Will. I think it'll occur to him to take a breath."

Will threw his hands in the air. " _When_?"

"When he runs out of air," Clint offered.

Both men looked up, wearing identical startled expressions behind nearly identical glasses. "Would you like a job?" Sam asked at the same instant Will yelled, "Mike!" Before Phil quite knew what was going on, four strong arms gripped him and two enthusiastic hands thumped his back. Clint hovered within range, content to be amused for now but ready to jump in the instant the exuberant welcome caused Phil pain. It was shocking to realize that, of all the people they'd talked to today, these were the first to attempt anything other than a handshake.

"Uh, hi, guys," Phil said when Sam and Will stepped back, grinning.

"You're back!" Sam said, delighted.

"We heard bad stories about where you were," Will added.

Damn it, Phil was not blushing. He was the super-agent. He didn't do that. "I'm okay, really," he said. Clint possibly snorted. "I've been transferred to the New York office." His eyes widened slightly when he realized he'd told them something like the truth, and Clint's face was a textbook example of bemusement.

Will nodded and looked at Clint. "And you brought us a new speechwriter."

Sam poked Will in the ribs, and Clint tried not to laugh. Phil shrugged. _Why the hell not?_ "He _is_ in communications. But you can't have him. This is my husband, Francis. He's part of the Stark Industries PR machine." He watched in rapt fascination as Clint shoved up the sleeves of his gray sweater and jutted one hip forward slightly. In a twinkling, he was absolutely a man Phil could imagine writing press releases for Tony Stark. He shivered.

"That's a thing?" Sam asked. "I thought it was just, Stark opens his mouth in front of a camera and terrible things come out."

"Which is why I will never be out of a job."

Will and Sam snickered, and Phil wanted to haul Clint into a dark corner and ravish him. But, introductions first. "Francis, Sam Seaborn and Will Bailey. They work for Toby."

"My condolences," Clint said gravely, shaking their hands.

Sam glared accusingly at Phil. "You never told us you were married."

Phil shrugged. "I wasn't, the last time you saw me."

Sam shook his head sadly. "The temptations of the big city."

Will nodded knowingly. "Luring virtuous bachelors into lives of wicked, wicked fidelity."

Sam ducked around them, peered into the bullpen for a second, and then closed the office door. "Listen," he said. Phil and Clint exchanged a look. _Here it comes._ "Have you been to Mezza?"

Phil blinked. "Have--what?"

"Mezza," Will said, vibrating slightly with excitement. "It's the new gay club in Bethesda. It is _the best_."

Phil squinted at him. "Do I look like the kind of man who goes to clubs of any kind?"

"No," Will conceded, "but _he_ looks like the kind of man who drags you to them."

"So true," Clint said, nodding.

"We'll go together," Will said.

Sam shook his head. "We'll get Josh and John to take us."

"Yes!" Will somehow managed to make shoving up his glasses a victory gesture.

Phil stared at them. "You're going to get the British ambassador into a gay club?"

"He introduced us to it," Sam said. "And you haven't experienced it 'til you've been with him."

Will added, "You _really_ haven't experienced it until you've watched Josh fight off a horde of twinks in fishnet shirts trying to seduce John with a plastic cocktail sword."

Phil choked on a laugh. Clint cocked his head. "How would you seduce someone with a cocktail sword?"

Sam made a funny gurgling sound, and he reached toward Clint, making little grabby motions. Phil chuckled and pulled Clint away. "Not for you."

"So we'll go," Will said, glaring at Sam. "Tonight?"

Sam whacked his arm lightly. "Not tonight."

" _Sam_ ," Will whined.

"Okay, fine, tonight, but _you_ explain to Toby why the third draft was written by drunkards on the backs of cocktail napkins."

"The third draft!" Will didn't actually smack his forehead, but he looked like he was thinking about it. "Tomorrow."

"Done," Clint said.

" _No_ ," Phil said, though he suspected the battle was lost.

"Don't be a spoilsport, Ph--" Clint flinched. "Fluffypants. If you won't go, I'll go without you--and I'll bring home a toy."

Fighting a grin, Phil crossed his arms. "That's up to you, but I won't surrender the bed."

Clint shrugged. "You know I can work around that."

Phil groaned and lowered his arms. "I was having a perfectly good day not thinking about Quimper."

"Georges was very fond of you."

Phil rolled his eyes, which was how he saw the dumbstruck looks on Sam's and Will's faces. "Mezza tomorrow night, then?" he said. "After the cookout?"

Clint boggled. "Secret agent BBQ? Pull the other one, Ph--Friendly."

Phil ignored the looks Sam and Will gave them at that. "Agent Gianopoulis wields a mean set of grill tongs."

"Agent Gianopoulis can _kill you_ with a set of grill tongs. I heard about the flag football game last year."

"Secret agent _football_?" Will asked incredulously.

"Not the worst idea ever had at one of these conferences," Phil admitted.

"Mike's friend from SHIELD went home with nine stitches," Clint said. "And her team _won_."

Will promised to get Josh and the ambassador on board with their plan. He and Clint exchanged phone numbers, and after that there didn't seem to be much left for Clint and Phil to do but go back to the hotel. They were out of people to talk to.

As soon as they were buckled into the rental, Clint leaned back the passenger seat and propped his feet on the dash, staring out the windshield. "So," he said, not looking over, "Mike Casper."

Phil flexed his fingers against the steering wheel as he eased into traffic. "Twelve years ago, the FBI Deputy Director for Special Affairs started running into a lot of strange occurrences. She was a firebrand; I'd never seen her face anything she couldn't handle. But she knew this was out of her league. She put out a few discreet inquiries, and all of Fury's alarm bells went off."

"But SHIELD doesn't have a presence in the White House." Clint rolled down his window and stuck his hand out, letting it float on the current.

"Half the people there don't know SHIELD exists--and half the ones who know don't believe. Fury and AD Hernandez did some deals, and there I was."

"Special Agent Michael Casper, FBI."

"Three of us went in: me at the White House; Sitwell on the Hill; Chue at the Supreme Court."

Clint frowned. "I don't know anybody named Chue."

Phil swallowed hard. Some losses cut deeper than others, even more than a decade later. "She didn't..." He shook his head. "We were dealing with a lot more than keeping up with witty banter."

Clint pulled his arm back inside and folded his hands in his lap. He shifted to face Phil. "What was it?" he asked softly.

"AIM," Phil replied, equally quiet. "To the highest levels in all three branches. Their dirty fingers were in everything. And Chue..."

"Hey." Clint's fingers fell lightly on Phil's arm.

Phil looked over with a grateful half-smile. "Yeah." He turned back to the road, and the hand withdrew slowly, with a hint of lingering intent. "There've been a couple things since President Bartlet took office--the shooting at Rosslyn, Zoe Bartlet's kidnapping--that we thought needed SHIELD presence. We were wrong in both cases, but the FBI was kind enough to let me run the investigation as Casper." He frowned at Clint's incredulous expression. "What?"

"You said 'FBI' and 'kind' in the same sentence."

Phil's eyebrow flexed. "They were...properly incentivized."

Clint snorted and crossed his arms. "Fury threatened their children and their children's children."

"Yay, verily," Phil intoned with the slightest twitch of his lips. "Even unto the seventh generation." His smile faded, and his face softened thoughtfully. "Bartlet's administration is the best I've dealt with. Still, I didn't expect so many people to remember me."

Clint stared at him. "Phil. They _love_ you."

"I was..." He lifted one hand and waved it. "Just a guy. One more boring federal agent in a suit."

Clint shook his head. "They're smarter than that."

Phil surrendered to the slow smile taking over his face. "Thank you, Clint."

Clint nodded and turned forward again, sinking further into the seat. "I could seduce you with a plastic sword," he said.

Phil's fingers twitched on the wheel. "I look forward to it."

* * *

The instant Phil closed the hotel room door, Clint was stripping out of his sweater and jeans, pulling on officially sanctioned SHIELD track pants (with the SHIELD logo _on the ass_ , thank you, professionalism) and officially licensed Captain America t-shirt (because having Steve's face plastered across his chest made everyone uncomfortable in the awesomest possible ways), and flopping cross-legged onto the bed with the laptop.

"Clint," Phil sighed, toeing out of his shoes.

Another conversation about SHIELD-approved attire for off-base operatives was about to roll. "I met 72 people today, Phil. Lay off."

"It wasn't--"

"Seventy. Two."

"Fine." As a concession to the long day, Phil removed his jacket and tie and hung them over the back of the desk chair. He climbed onto the bed beside Clint, stretching out his legs. They spent ten minutes snickering at Cake Wrecks before Phil reluctantly took the laptop and patched them into the Skype connection in the Tower conference room.

"Brother warriors!" Thor boomed, face centimeters from the camera, as always, until Natasha hauled him back, as always.

"Hey, guys," Clint said.

"Uh...that's my face," Steve said, predictably pink in the cheeks.

"Yup!" Clint agreed cheerfully.

Steve swallowed. "How's the meeting, Agent Coulson?"

"It's a little boring, thanks for asking, Cap."

"You!" Tony waggled a finger. "You've been a bad, bad boy, Barton. I'm impressed. Really."

"Thanks, Fribbly!" Clint said. Tony and Bruce jerked, startled.

Steve instantly looked grave and disappointed. "Were you brawling in the White House, Clint?"

"The guy tried to steal a girl's purse, Cap. I couldn't let him go."

"But fighting in the White House!" Clint knew he shouldn't be so delighted by how distraught Steve sounded.

"He did very well, Captain," Phil put in softly. Clint tried not to wriggle.

"Did you meet CJ Cregg?" Natasha asked. "I love her."

"I did. She's hot. Very tall."

Natasha grinned. "Excellent."

"Did you meet the President?" Steve asked eagerly.

"Uh, no. Didn't manage that."

Phil stared. "Yes, you did."

"I did?"

"He was short and brilliant. Talked a lot about corn."

"No, I thought--wait. _That_ was President Bartlet?"

Tony snickered. "Nice work, Mr. Civics."

"I talked to 85 people today, Funkybutt," Clint shot back. "I don't want to hear it from you."

"Okay." Bruce held up his hand. "What's up with the weird nicknames?"

Phil laid his hand on Clint's thigh and shook his head the smallest bit. Clint nodded his understanding, then shrugged at the screen. "Just noticing there are no good pet names that start with 'f'. I came up with a couple, but no way they're good enough for my man. But I figured, eh, I just like Stark so-so; good enough for him."

Natasha laughed, and Bruce made a face like he was putting serious consideration into this. "Hey!" Tony protested.

"You and Pepper are welcome to any of 'em you want, Doc," Clint added.

"Thanks. We'll consider it," Bruce said.

"You will not!" Tony squawked.

"Hey, guys," Phil interrupted, "is anything actually going on?" Five Avengers suddenly looked down, or away, or generally sheepish. Phil sat up, all sharp edges again. "Someone talk to me."

"We're _bored_ ," Natasha confessed.

Phil closed his eyes. Clint wondered how high he would count before he opened them again. "We will be home on Sunday," Phil said, with a calm he probably didn't feel. "Can you refrain from killing anyone, wrecking Long Island, or giving appliances free will before then?"

There was a lot of grumbling, especially from Tony's end of the table, but they agreed to leave the world in one piece for the remainder of the weekend. Phil confirmed that no one had reports to make, said they'd talk tomorrow, and ended the call. He put the computer on standby and set it on the nightstand. Easing onto his back, fingers laced behind his head, he tilted his face up to Clint. "I hope _you're_ not bored."

Clint slithered down to lay beside him. He reached out a finger and traced it down Phil's jaw, earning an approving sigh. "I can think of a few ways to entertain myself."

Phil rolled onto his side. "Tell me about them," he murmured.

Clint rolled up, too, so they lay face-to-face. "I'd rather show you."

They met in a kiss that stripped away Agent Casper and Francis, Phil and Clint, Coulson and Hawkeye, and every other mask they'd ever worn. It was all teeth and tongues and two men who knew each other down to that molten core where names and labels melted away.

Boredom was not mentioned for the rest of the night.

* * *

Jed couldn't remember the last time he'd had this many people in the Oval Office. Actually, he considered it possible he'd _never_ had this many people in the Oval Office. The entire Senior Staff, fine--that happened every morning--but what were the assistants doing here? And why, when he was pretty sure they had a country to run, did they only want to discuss the surprise reappearance of Agent Casper?

"I didn't know the FBI sent people to the Lesser Antilles," Margaret said.

"What, no, it was Azerbaijan." CJ was using a broccoli floret as a ladle in a dollop of dip on her paper plate. Honestly. Had someone brought _crudit_ _és_ into his office?

"The husband's cute," Will said. As usual, he and Sam were smashed too close together on the couch. They always claimed it was so they wouldn't crowd the person on the other end, but, also as usual, the "person" on the other end was Josh and John, who were themselves sitting so close Babish could've fit between the two couples. Jed wasn't sure when this became something people felt they could do in the Oval Office.

"Is he really a concert tubaist?" Bonnie asked.

" _No_ ," Charlie scoffed, maneuvering a dip-covered chip toward his mouth. "He invented the Snuggie."

Wedged deep into his corner of the couch, John chuckled. "He's having you all on."

Josh whirled on him. "No way." His emphatic arm gesture nearly put out Sam's eye, despite the gap between them. "You met him, John. Fine, upstanding Agent Casper does not 'have on' the President's staff _in_ the West Wing."

"All right," John said, thoroughly unconvinced.

In the chair beside Jed, quiet amusement billowed off Leo. "I stopped by the intelligence meeting today," Jed said, pitching his voice beneath the hubbub of staffers trying to convince Lord Marbury of the depths of Mike Casper's moral rectitude.

The corner of Leo's mouth quirked up, but he didn't look over. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. They hate when I do that. No one's supposed to know they're here--not even me."

The smirk turned into a full-out smile. "It's good to keep them on their toes, sir."

"I didn't see anyone from SHIELD. They usually send whatshername...Hill, but MacDougal said it was someone else this year. Coulson, maybe?"

"Maybe."

Jed knew they sometimes actually played poker at Leo's AA meeting disguised as a poker game. He assumed Leo cleaned the floor with every person in the room. "Salat--FBI, you know?--said Coulson had been called away. Something about his husband being messed up in the thing on the tour."

Leo finally looked at him. "Fascinating, sir," he said, without a twitch of any other muscle in his face.

Jed snorted. "You are exasperating." He surveyed the babbling throng. "Get these yahoos out of my office."

***

Leo's StarkPhone buzzed just past midnight. He swiped the screen and peered at the Incoming Reply box that popped up. _Doing our bit for our cntry. Pres's staff shld b sharp. -PC_

Leo chuckled and hit Reply. _Give my regards to Clint._ As an afterthought, he added, _And Nick._ He pushed the phone aside and, after a moment's contemplation, shoved his report back together and into his briefcase.

Since Jed came into office, Leo had learned a lot of things he'd been perfectly happy not knowing, especially about what the job of keeping the nation safe really entailed. These things often featured prominently on the list of things that kept him awake at night. But right now he felt better, because he'd been reminded that people like Coulson and Barton were involved in taking care of it.

That seemed worth one night's sound sleep.


End file.
